toun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.
'My good man!' he said again and again, 'your book is worth far more than two hundred and fifty francs, I assure you—far more.'
But the answer did not vary: 'I will take two hundred and fifty francs, not more.'
There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The money was paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over the transaction, and then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright, he ceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually laughed or tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.
'I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?' said the sacristan.
'Oh no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, and there is a moon.'
The offer was pressed three or four times, and refused as often.
'Then, monsieur will summon me if—if he finds occasion; he will keep the middle of the road, the sides are so rough.'
